Does not compute; does not commute.
This week I was diagnosed with panic disorder.
What for most of my life has been fairly insignificant claustrophobia has turned into a much bigger problem since I moved to London.
Heavy crowds are my trigger, so journeys on the Tube regularly transform into a mess of heavy breathing, collapsed knees, and on one occasion, an activated passenger alarm, several men in hi-vis jackets, and lots of confused people at Liverpool Street in the morning peak. My brain cannot compute large numbers of people. Ergo, Caitlin does not commute. Turning up to 9am shorthand classes has been a bloody nightmare.
Self-deprecating sarcasm and opportunities for retweets are the only way I know how to deal with things, so I will be writing about this moronic situation in which I find myself. I'll probably be swearing about it too.
The writing might not last very long. At this point, I'm 90% sure I'll be slaughtered by either a Central Line commuter or my shorthand tutor on this side of Christmas.
However, I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to every single commuter I've right royally p*ssed off or made late in the last 8 weeks, especially on the train that was stopped. Rest assured that I have never been more desperate for the ground to swallow me up in my life. And say thank you to everyone who's offered me a seat/Kinder Bueno/cup of tea/a pat on the back and hand on to the train at Angel.
It won't be happening for much longer. Or at the very least, hopefully you'll be on a different train.
What for most of my life has been fairly insignificant claustrophobia has turned into a much bigger problem since I moved to London.
Heavy crowds are my trigger, so journeys on the Tube regularly transform into a mess of heavy breathing, collapsed knees, and on one occasion, an activated passenger alarm, several men in hi-vis jackets, and lots of confused people at Liverpool Street in the morning peak. My brain cannot compute large numbers of people. Ergo, Caitlin does not commute. Turning up to 9am shorthand classes has been a bloody nightmare.
Self-deprecating sarcasm and opportunities for retweets are the only way I know how to deal with things, so I will be writing about this moronic situation in which I find myself. I'll probably be swearing about it too.
The writing might not last very long. At this point, I'm 90% sure I'll be slaughtered by either a Central Line commuter or my shorthand tutor on this side of Christmas.
However, I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to every single commuter I've right royally p*ssed off or made late in the last 8 weeks, especially on the train that was stopped. Rest assured that I have never been more desperate for the ground to swallow me up in my life. And say thank you to everyone who's offered me a seat/Kinder Bueno/cup of tea/a pat on the back and hand on to the train at Angel.
It won't be happening for much longer. Or at the very least, hopefully you'll be on a different train.
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